Vita Cantabile
by qhckaloyhzcxtmb
Summary: Whoever said band was boring clearly wasn't in it! Follow the band kids from Hetalia High and witness everything from their friendships and a freshman's experience to romances and rivalries. Multiple characters and pairings listed inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

**For practical story reasons, Ancient Rome (Mr. Vargas) will be the Italies' uncle. The story will also take place somewhere in Texas, my home state, as I have first-hand experience as to how marching band works here. I tried to clarify all terms so even those who don't know them will, but if you have any questions about the nature of marching, feel free to ask.**

**Characters at the bottom.**

* * *

"Alright everybody, this is it!" exclaimed Mr. Vargas, grinning widely as he walked down the school bus' aisle and eyed his anxious students, "This is what we've been working for the entire summer and through your precious homework time."

Someone groaned good-naturedly.

The band director laughed, scratching his scruffy beard. "You've practiced plenty, and you've practiced greatly. You have the skill, but do you have the guts?"

"Hell yeah!" shouted a voice. The students chuckled, but the nervous look remained in their eyes.

"Sit back down, Gilbert!" Despite his tone, Mr. Vargas was grinning too. These kids were practically his own. He looked fondly at his nephews, Feliciano and Lovino. But it wasn't just them, it was the entire band. They'd been through long, arduous practices were the sun scorched the earth mercilessly; they'd pushed through those days were no one seemed to want to be there. They overcame, but he had never stopped believing in them.

"I agree with Gilbert," admitted Mr. Vargas, "But it's really up to you and what you do on the field. So let's show up, kick everyone else's asses off the planet with our awesome marching, and win us another trophy!"

The entire bus erupted in cheers. Some beat on the seats like they were timpani drums, some hooted and hollered, some clapped loudly. All grinned.

Mr. Vargas took a seat in the front of the bus, moving his backpack closer to him. When he thought no one was looking, he swiftly pulled out a magazine with a rather boring cover. He tilted his body to the side so he leaned away from the seat beside him, hiding the fact that a _Playboy_ was concealed behind the other magazine.

A few seats behind him, a pretty girl stirred. She gave a little squeal and moved closer to the guy to her left, sliding her arm through his.

"Roderich, this is our last UIL!" Elizabeta said, "Our last band competition! Also, our last perfect score of 1," she added. Her smile suddenly became menacing. "Our last time kicking ass in marching band. Our last time seeing our competition totally _crushed_."

Roderich chuckled and squeezed her hand. "Are you a marcher, or a Magyar?"

"Both!" She giggled and pecked her boyfriend.

"Ugh," complained a voice. Elizabeta whipped her head around, murder in her eyes and an insult on the tip of her tongue, but she relaxed upon seeing who it was.

"Come on, Peter, I'm allowed to do that to my boyfriend," she said, slipping her arm from Roderich's and playfully flicking at the freshman's forehead.

"Does it really have to be in public, though?" he whined, "I mean, I like you – not romantically or anything, Roderich!- but kissing's a little gross."

"Don't inflict your own personal issues on others," quipped another voice, "Just because _you've_ never been kissed doesn't mean they can't."

Peter scoffed indignantly and knelt on the seat, poking his head out. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean, Arthur?!" he yelled, even though his brother was only 2 seats away from him.

"Exactly what I said."

"Why are you so mean to your own brother, Arthur?" Elizabeta said, looking out from the seat as well.

"Have you _met_ my brother?"

Elizabeta frowned. "Yes, and he's a sweetheart!" She hopped over to Peter's seat and squeezed him in embrace.

Peter blushed and tried to pry her hands away. "_Liz!_" he said.

"Am I making you jealous yet, Roddy?" Liz asked, turning her head to him.

"Infuriatingly so," he replied, his mouth quirked upward the slightest bit.

She let go of Peter, who gasped exaggeratedly for air while she laughed, clear as spring morning.

That laugh carried through even further back, to where the bad people were likely to hang out, presumably smoking and talking casually about the drugs, crime, and sex they did.

But since this was a band bus, the worst a student at the back had done was replace his brother's shampoo with maple syrup.

The crowd at the back roared in laughter. Since, as previously mentioned, this was a bus of band kids, someone had probably made a penis joke.

Someone had.

"Dude, those will never stop being funny," sighed a bespectacled blond, removing his glasses to wipe his tears away.

"You know what else will never stop being funny?" prompted his friend Gilbert, the one who'd stood up earlier. He paused for dramatic effect.

"YO' _FACE_!" he shouted, and the others joined in a chorus of "OHHH!" High fives were exchanged all around.

Arthur, rows ahead, peeked his head out of his seat. "Could you please be a little quieter?" he asked sweetly, dripping poison.

Before any of them could reply, he retorted, "Oh wait, I forgot I was talking to people who could outshriek a bloody 747 taking off!"

Gilbert scrunched up his face and turned to his friend. "Alfred, what do you see in that grouch? God, he's worse than Oscar."

"I HEARD THAT!"

"It's 'cause today's such a big day," Alfred explained, "He gets snappy 'cause of the tension and anxiety. You know how pessimistic he is and how he always manages to come up with the worst case scenarios." He tried to glance at Arthur, but he was once more properly seated and hidden from view.

"It's just a quirk of his," Alfred said, a big, dumb, lovestruck grin on his face, "It means he's worried, but we're gonna do fine." He turned back around and flashed a happy thumbs-up. "We're the best marching band in the district!"

"Maybe even the city," fancied another guy with long, silky, blond hair that had confused many a man who'd seen him from the back.

"Pfft, more like _state_!" scoffed an Asian named Yong Soo.

"In the country!" chimed in Gilbert.

Alfred laughed. "The world!"

"In the whole goddamn _universe_!" whooped Mr. Vargas from the front.

The guys in the back cheered. More people were confused than not as to what the director was replying to.

"Oh, we're almost to the stadium!" said Gilbert, rushing to the window and pressing his face against it. "Francis, put your hat on now."

Francis pouted. "But the earlier I do that, the more my hair spends suffocating on those dreary things we call hats, and my hat-hair turns out worse."

"You take too damn long to do it, though!" Gilbert said, "Remember when we played against Blue Cove High?"

The others groaned and rolled their eyes.

"What?!" cried Francis, "Is it _my_ fault the majority of them are attractive and I wanted to look my best?"

Gilbert rolled an exasperated hand down his face. "You took so long in trying to put your hair up without messing it up, that Mr. Vargas just slammed it on your head and pushed you to the field. You fixed your hat _noticeably_ several times during the show. You-"

"The hat is going on now," Francis said, opening his hat box to remove it.

A few seats ahead, a seemingly intimidating young man tapped his fingers restlessly. He was scowling and flitting his eyes from the view out the window to inside the bus consistently, as if paranoid there was someone after him.

A small Asian guy was to his right, watching him with concern.

"Lars," he said quietly, "You shouldn't go march like this."

The other pursed his lips in annoyance and lingered his gaze out the window, before swiftly turning around. "Why not?" he growled. Hurt flashed over his friend's eyes. He looked down at his hands.

Lars ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Sorry, Kiku," he mumbled.

"I know," his friend replied ruefully, "And you do too. You can't march like this."

Lars fingers were going incredibly fast, and his leg began to tap as well. "I can. I'm fine. I can keep myself in check."

Kiku eyed him dolefully, considering speaking. He had plenty more to say, definitely; he had some stern scolding in mind for his longtime friend.

He said nothing more.

The bus was meandering through the stadium's full parking lot. Other schools had already performed and were anxiously awaiting their results as they huddled beside their buses, some were just leaving, others were long gone.

"Start dressing," ordered Mr. Vargas, standing in his seat, packing up his things.

The chatter from before became a little more solemn as people began preparing. The warm-up voices of the instruments began to speak for some who had had theirs ready.

"This is it, Lili," said Arthur as he zipped her jacket, "Your first UIL. My last."

"It's very exciting," she admitted in that sweet, kind voice of hers, "Although I do have a few butterflies flying around in my tummy."

"It's understandable," he turned so she could zip his, "My freshman year, I was shaking so bad that my legs could have qualified as the xylophone I was supposed to play."

She giggled.

"I don't mean to get you nervous or anything," he said hurriedly, strapping on her hat and adjusting it, "I just want you to see that it's fine to be a bit antsy."

"You're one to talk," teased Alfred from the back. Arthur rolled his eyes.

He tapped her hat once, signifying she was fully dressed and good to go. "Good luck," he said, shaking her hand.

"That's enough," barked her brother, Vash, from behind them, "You have a boyfriend, Kirkland."

Arthur's jaw dropped in disbelief. "I'm not bloody flirting with her, you obtuse fool!" he said. Lili, giggling, walked by him so she could leave. Others nearby smiled as well.

Vash narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Oh my god," Arthur muttered, and just left the bus.

Elizabeta fretted over Roderich's appearance. Her tongue stuck out from her mouth the tiniest bit as she scrutinized him. "Oh, your eyebrow is all messy," she said, licking her finger and moving to fix it, but Roderich held her wrist to prevent her from doing so. He fixed it with his own (dry) finger. She smirked. "You go drum major the hell out of us, Roddy," she said, and they kissed. He quickly walked off the bus, adjusting his gloves.

Liz went to Peter, who struggled with his jacket.

"Need help?" she asked.

Peter' brow was burrowed. "No, I can do this! I haven't been able to do this by myself yet, but this time is different!" His right arm was bent over his back, fingers wiggling as they tried to reach the zipper. His left arm was straight across his back, fingers also seeking metal but feeling only air.

"Sorry, Peter, but we have to go." Deftly, she did his jacket with one hand. "We gotta hurry! And I still have to get my instrument!" She ran down.

He grabbed his mallet sticks and flew after her, crying, "Wait for me!"

A cacophony of instruments tried to drown each others' sounds. Woodwinds struggled to hear themselves amidst the boisterous brass, and resorted to playing ear-shrieking high notes. In turn, the brass, annoyed they would probably go deaf, blasted their instruments with as much force as rockets taking off. The drumline's hands were a blur as they tapped fast beats, and their sounds were so piercing they shot straight your ears.

Mr. Vargas and Roderich cut them off with a swift, uniform movement of their hands.

"Get in your places," Mr. Vargas stated, stepping a little behind the drum major, and the band scampered as they switched spots to get into their respective warm-up positions.

They were all where they needed to be within a matter of seconds and were quiet as they awaited further instruction.

"Concert F," the director said.

Roderich tapped his right hand to a tempo only he could hear in his head. Once – twice – and a-one, two, three, four –

The band sung as a single instrument. It was such a beautiful voice that the other bands rehearsing nearby couldn't help but turn and gape. Everyone knew how to balance their own sound as to become a greater one with their fellow peers, and you could hear it – the tubas were the strong, solid foundation, on top of which the euphoniums and trombones were laid; the trumpets provided a little more brightness; the bari sax and bass clarinet gave a dark, reedy sound on which the fluttery higher-pitched woodwinds rested, light as feathers.

Roderich cut them off. Their sound lingered for just a moment after they'd finished.

"Let's tune," said Mr. Vargas, rummaging through his pocket for his iPhone. He went to each section and told them how to adjust their instrument. Roderich did the same with his own smartphone.

"Did you see how they all turned to look at us?" excitedly whispered Feliciano, cradling his trumpet as he waited to be tuned.

"They know the kings are here," loftily remarked Alfred, "And queens," he quickly added when Elizabeta glared at him. She smiled and gave an appreciative thumbs up.

It took a few more minutes for Mr. Vargas and Roderich to finish. Once they had, they went back to the front.

"Let's start at letter A in the music," instructed Mr. Vargas. Roderich nodded and repeated the director's words.

"Set!" Roderich suddenly said, voice sharp and pointed. The band was made of statues.

Roderich gave them their tempo, accompanied by Yao Wang of the drumline, who tapped right along. "Dut. Dut. Dut, dut, dut, dut-"

Those who played immediately had drawn their instruments in time to him, had already breathed, and now began to play their show, the music they had learned and practiced for three months.

Their sound revealed their efforts.

Mr. Vargas couldn't help the beam that spread across his face. This is what he loved doing, and it's what he knew they loved, too. They were great, he was great, and everything was beautiful.

Of course, he still did hear a few mistakes: no band was perfect. But the rest almost brought joyful tears to his eyes. It was a shame their band was so small when the program consistently proved to be excellent.

They ran through the entire show in the parking lot, though the marchers stayed in place, keeping time by raising their feet up and down, stepping out with one foot when they truly did so in the show.

The percussion who weren't drumline, but played instruments by the front of the field, had already gone there to set up their instruments and practice on their own. As their director was busy with the others, Arthur was in charge of them. Truthfully, it was supposed to be Heracles Karpusi, but he was sick with senioritis. So Arthur stepped up (despite only being with the pit during marching season) as the leader. No one complained.

He stopped their playing. "That was good," he said, "However, timpani, please be a little softer."

Heracles gave a lazy thumbs-up.

Arthur turned to the person playing the bells. "Conversely, I could hardly hear you, Matthew. Especially around letter E. That's just us there, so you have to play out if you want your instrument heard. Which, well, you should. Otherwise, that was lovely."

"Oh." Matthew turned a little pink. "Oh, um, well. I'll play out n-next time. And, um, thank you, too."

"You're welcome, and you better play out, since 'next time' is when we do this for real. Look, they're marching onto the field. Get ready!"

Peter coolly watched his brother go beside his instrument and stand with his hands behind his back. He did the same, as Arthur had told them to. "That's fine, don't give _me_ any feedback," he mumbled.

"Shut up," hissed Arthur between his teeth, still staring in front of him, "I had nothing to say to you."

"You always say everyone can impr-"

"Be _quiet_." Something in his tone shut Peter up. He looked ahead.

The band was a neat line. Feet moved perfectly together. The angles on their hats' brims were just right. Shinier instruments blinked as their owners moved under intense stadium lights.

Roderich walked beside them but eventually they parted ways. Being the drum major, he stayed at the front of the field and saluted the judges sitting below the distant press box before climbing on the podium. The band scattered upon the field, still marching, and went to their opening sets.

The percussionists were given their cue to go to their instruments as well. Arthur gave a brief speech. "Normally one would say good luck in this type of scenario, but we don't need luck – we have skill. Play well, everyone, just as you always have. I have full faith in you all."

"_Huh_," Peter thought. That was... decent. He was surprised it came from his brother's mouth, but reluctantly accepted it as decent.

It began.

Cameras flashed blindingly white, bright against the starless night sky. Some were far-off, tiny pinpricks; others shuttered right by Peter's sensitive ears. His senses were more alert than they ever had been – his eyes gazed intently ahead of him, focused, yet scrutinizing the many cheering, eager faces of the crowd; his ears picked up on his fellow percussionists' deep, controlled breathing; his hands, gently holding mallet sticks poised a breath above the xylophone, hugged the sticks a little tighter, the smooth, worn wood familiar to his touch; his tongue felt heavy and out of place in his mouth.

He bounced nervously on the AstroTurf and glanced up at his drum major, who stood still and calm as frozen water, his arms bent out in front of him, right hand subtly tapping to an imaginary beat. Roderich's glasses were white disks at this angle. Suddenly he caught Peter's eye, turned his head a tiny bit downward, the light on his lenses flashing away, and Peter noticed that he was actually smiling.

Roderich quickly reverted his attention back to the field, regarding his marchers with a proud eye. The marchers were as motionless as he, awaiting his start.

"Drum Major, is your band ready?" boomed a disembodied voice.

Roderich gave the slightest nod.

And when Peter saw Roderich's gloved hand sharply go up and back down, the adrenaline began to rush through his body, leaving a huge grin on his face.

From behind him, the music swelled and the marching show began.

Their frenzied shrieks rattled Roderich's very bones.

"WE GOT A 1, WE GOT A 1! FOR THE FIFTEENTH YEAR IN A ROW!"

Alfred held the trophy up, closely followed by a herd of band kids intoxicated with glory. You could hardly hear Alfred's announcement through the deafening cheering. They hugged, they danced, they jumped in exuberance.

Roderich watched from afar as he leaned against the bus, smiling to himself. The purest and sweetest of joys always came from his time in this organization. He wasn't one for hooting and hollering, but he did appreciate fine effort. He clapped, even if they couldn't hear him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh. Hello, Ludwig," he said. He had to speak a little louder than normal to be heard, despite the distance between him and the band.

His friend smiled and patted Roderich. "Good job out there."

"You're the one who was marching, not me."

"You're the one who gives us tempo, cues, and generally keeps us together. It's you just as much as us. Besides, we all know that among us, you're the one most passionate about music."

"Thank you, Ludwig."

Ludwig awkwardly stood there a few moments. He'd said all he wanted to, but now how would he excuse himself? Did he just leave?

Roderich sensed his befuddling and granted him a way out. "You should go to Feliciano. He's probably ready to burst from excitement about what he wants to tell you, I'm sure."

"Uh, yes. Excuse me." Ludwig shuffled away.

Chortling, Roderich climbed on the bus. He was the only one there. It was strange to to be in darkness and silence when normally, this bus was loud with chatter and full of light the sun outside provided. Now, he only heard the far-off celebration of the band.

A few minutes later, everyone began getting back on the bus. The atmosphere regained some of its liveliness, and the bus driver turned on the lights. Roderich was mindlessly fiddling with his gloves as he waited for Elizabeta. When he heard heavy footsteps, he put them up, smiling a little.

Her face was pink from the cold and the excitement. Her grin was brighter than the moon's.

"So how do you feel, Mr. Drum Major?" she said casually, sliding in beside him as he made room for her, "Did we do fantastic?" She winked.

Her beam was contagious. "Of course, Liz. I'm very proud of everyone. Our hard work shone through on the field."

"I hope this means we get celebratory... oh, I don't know – perhaps donuts in the morning?" She nudged him with her elbow.

"That's up to Mr. Vargas, not me," he laughed, "Although I suppose I could bake some pastries. It's late, but it wouldn't take too long. Besides, everyone deserves it."

She squealed and kissed him on the cheek. "You're the best, Roddy! Do you want me to go help, so you don't stay up too late? I could ask Ludwig, too. Honestly, he'd be better help because he's better at baking than me. Plus he's your neighbor so he doesn't have to walk a very long way home."

"Certainly."

"Okay, be right back!" Elizabeta went to were Ludwig was seating. He was trying to make his own comments heard in his discussion with Feliciano, but the guy couldn't stop talking once he started.

"But did you see the passthrough, Ludwig?! Our lines were perfect and straight and no one hit each other! Not even a slight bump from their instrument!"

"I-"

"Ooh, and when the pit had their soli you could actually hear Matthew! You'd think bells would be heard anyway, but you know how shy he is. I guess it even shows through when he plays! Ooh, and Lars' solo! It was like God speaking to us through a trombone, not that it isn't normally, but now everyone heard him! Though there was something a _little_ off about him; I dunno what, but hey at least it didn't ruin us!"

"Maybe-"

"Hey guys!" chirped Liz, siting on Feliciano's lap as there was no more room for her.

"Liz, Liz!" Feliciano cried, taking her hand in his and patting it back and forth, "Liz, I'm so happy! We were so good!"

"Fifteen years of the best damn scores. I think the previous fourteen say something about us!" She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I came to ask Ludwig something."

"What is it?" Ludwig said, eyeing her oddly for doing... that. Sitting on Feliciano's lap.

She leaned in closer to him so no one could hear, yet Ludwig pulled away as well as if she carried rabies.

"Roddy's baking for us, because we did so well," she softly began.

Feliciano beamed. "Oh, y-!" Elizabeta quickly covered his mouth with his hand but didn't take her eyes off Ludwig. "He'd like your help."

Ludwig rubbed his temples, trying to keep his eyes steadily on Elizabeta's face and not anywhere else. Why was she so... so... _touchy_?

"Sure," he said uncomfortably, "But could you please not, um, not _splay_ yourself over us?"

Elizabeta blinked, eyes wide. "Oh!" she immediately got off them and on her feet, chuckling. "Sorry, Ludwig, I forget you're just real awkward around girls. Even if you've known them forever," she muttered under her breath.

She flashed a quick smile. "I'll go tell him. Thanks so much!" She left.

Feliciano turned to Ludwig, giddy. "Yay, we're getting pastries!" he tried to whisper.

"Tell no one," Ludwig ordered.

His friend mocked saluted him. "Sir!"

As she went back to her seat, Liz noticed Peter yawning and sleepily rubbing his eyes. She smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Tired much, fishy?"

"Yes." He yawned again. "But I feel good about how we did." He smiled drowsily.

"What did Ludwig say?" quietly asked Roderich as she sat.

"He agreed," she replied, also keeping her voice low, "But God, Roderich, he's such a prude. I sit on Feli's lap and then lean over to him and he acts like I'm asking him if he'd prefer a blowjob or a handjob."

"Liz!" hissed Roderich, motioning with his eyes at Peter.

"Oh, Roddy, he's in high school now. He'll hear worse in the halls." She playfully stuck out her tongue. "I forget how prudish you are too."

The bus' motor rumbled to life. He closed his eyes. "It's time to go home now."

She rested her head on him. "Don't fall asleep on me. We've got some baking to do in a bit."

"I promise I won't fall asleep."

"Good."

They lay still like that, and they weren't alone. The anxiety and chatter from earlier were gone, replaced with languor and mumbled conversations. Couples cuddled, and those who were single stared awkwardly out of windows or tried in vain to talk with their canoodling friends.

Gilbert was one of these people.

"Another marching season over, huh?" he said to no one in particular because apparently Alfred was too busy being cuddly with Arthur.

"It's my last year," Gilbert continued. Alfred didn't listen.

Francis tried not to laugh at him. Yong Soo was too invested with playing his Nintendo DS to care.

Gilbert turned to Francis. "This is why I always liked _going_ to games and shit better than _leaving_."

"Likewise, because we don't have those eyebrows with human legs wasting our air back here."

Without missing a beat, Arthur flipped him the bird.

"Right back at you," cordially replied Francis.

"Forget _those_ jerks," jeered Gilbert, "Our friendship is real and true."

They angrily fist-bumped.

Francis rested his head on his hand, huffily blowing air out of his mouth. His bangs fluttered. "You are right, that was our last UIL. Somehow, I thought it'd be a little more memorable."

Gilbert shifted in his seat. "Well, it sorta was. I mean, we did really good. It's just that we're going to be traumatized when we look back upon this day because of the sloppy make-outs that took place beside us."

Francis sighed and stood straighter, smiling a little. "Now we just have concert season left! I've always liked it."

"Because we wear tuxes."

"Exactly! As much as I enjoy marching band, these outfits are _atrocious_. It's a miracle I dress in them at all."

Gilbert laughed dryly. Some seats ahead, he could see the top of Roderich's head. His lip involuntarily twitched.

"And it's a miracle _you_ march with Roderich as our drum major," Francis finished.

Gilbert snorted. "I wouldn't let that snob take my fun away from me. I like band more than I don't like him. Besides, this is the last year I have to go to school with him. I'm pretty sure Juilliard accepted him when he was a fucking fetus, and God knows I couldn't even step foot in their restrooms."

"_Have_ you looked at any schools?"

"Some." He crossed his arms behind his head. "But I still don't really know what I want to study."

"You're not alone in that."

"Yeah, I know." Gil exhaled heavily. "I know."

Beside the seat Gil had glowered at, Peter rested against the wall, fluttering in the state between life and sleep. Images from their show still flickered in his head – the awed faces of the crowd, his mallets as they glided across the xylophone, the drum major's steady conducting.

"Three more years," he mumbled, "Three more years of this." He finally succumbed to sleep.

* * *

**Not every character has been introduced, as I felt that would just overflow your brains and would generally be necessary. However, here's the list, in alphabetical order:**

**America**

**Ancient Rome**

**Australia**

**Austria**

**Belarus**

**Belgium**

**Canada**

**China**

**Denmark**

**England**

**Estonia**

**Finland**

**France**

**Germania**

**Germany**

**Greece**

**Hong Kong**

**Hungary**

**Iceland**

**Italy**

**Japan**

**Latvia**

**Liechtenstein**

**Lithuania**

**Netherlands**

**Norway**

**Poland**

**Prussia**

**Russia**

**Sealand**

**Seychelles**

**South Italy**

**South Korea**

**Spain**

**Sweden**

**Switzerland**

**Taiwan**

**Turkey**

**Ukraine**

* * *

**Pairings (some will unfold and are a secret for now, but the ones that are already happening):**

**AusHun**

**USUK**

**SuFin**

* * *

**I apologize for the block of text. Thank you for reading, and I hope you stick around!**

**-atramentaceous**


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeta closed the car door with her butt, her hands holding up aluminum-covered plates. Roderich, carrying some too, resorted to kicking it close as delicately as he could. Touching his car with his foot made his soul cry a little. He wobbled on one knee as he blindly searched for his car keys in his pocket – a beep later, and the car was locked.

Liz sniffed and dug her face a little closer to her scarf. "Brr, it's cold!" she said as they walked to the school, "It's not even winter yet and I'm wearing a scarf and gloves."

"I-I'd expect nothing l-less from Texas w-w-weather," stuttered Roderich, teeth chattering.

Liz laughed, her breath misting. "You're wearing _how_ many layers and you still shiver?"

His face, already pink from the chill, glowed brighter. "Five."

"You need a little more muscle, Roddy! I mean, you think this is cold, you'll die in New York's winter after ten seconds."

"_If_ I go to New York, I certainly wouldn't leave my room during the winter." He opened the door for Liz, who thanked him.

"Come on, don't be so modest. We all know you're a shoo-in to Juilliard. When did you send in your application?"

"A week ago. Still no reply."

He opened yet another door (the band hall's) for her. Only Mr. Vargas, Arthur, Ludwig, and Gilbert were there. Gilbert, who'd curiously glanced up to see who walked in, darted his gaze away.

"What is that delightful smell?" Mr. Vargas rolled out of his office in his chair, grinning. "Roderich, I should have known! Those for us?"

"Yes, sir. I made apple danishes for everyone because of their efforts during marching season, and how well we did yesterday." He unwrapped the plate to reveal the golden, fluffy pastries. Mr. Vargas was practically drooling as Roderich offered him one.

"Ludwig, Arthur, Gilbert, come get your danishes!" Elizabeta yelled.

Meanwhile, Mr. Vargas moaned. "Jesus Christ, Roderich, you have a gift! If you weren't so damn good at the French horn, I'd make sure you went to culinary school!"

Roderich smiled, and Gilbert, who was still making his way to the director's office, silently and mockingly moved his lips.

"Thank you, Mr. Vargas," said Roderich, "But I can't take all the credit. Liz and Ludwig helped, too."

Mr. Vargas raised his half-eaten danish at the other two in thanks. "Damn fine job."

Arthur carefully grabbed one, as if they were made of glass. "They look..." he mumbled, "They look just like they're supposed to." He held back a sob, envisioning his multiple burnt attempts at scones. He took an ambivalent nibble. A single tear rolled down his eye. "It _tastes_ like it's supposed to." He straggled away, miserably eating the perfect pastry.

Ludwig reached for one and ate it. "Now that I think about it, bringing milk would have been good," he observed after swallowing.

"Damn," muttered Elizabeta, then more brightly said, "Well, next time." Her face fell. "Wait, there is no next time."

Gilbert swiped one and scampered, like a five year old who'd just taken a cookie they weren't supposed to and didn't want to get caught. Elizabeta eyed him, her mouth twisting to the side. She turned back to Roderich, giving a small smile. "We should stand by here so when people walk in, they immediately get their danish."

He nodded, then gasped. "I almost forgot." He looked expectantly at his girlfriend, who stared quizzically back before realization slammed her in the face.

"Oh, right!" she breathed, handing one of the plates to the director. "Here you are, Mr. Vargas! A Linzer torte just for you. It's in thanks for being such an awesome teacher. Ludwig and I also helped with that one."

"Oh my god." He rolled his head back, grinning in disbelief. "You kids spoil me," he laughed, receiving the torte. "I'm gonna eat this baby for lunch. Thanks."

"No problem!"

"Hey guys, what's going on?" chirped a pretty blonde, red cheeks matching her ribbon. Her eyes widened in joy. "Ooh, you made pastries!"

"Hi Bella!" greeted Liz, "Here, have one."

"Good job yesterday," congratulated Roderich.

Bella smiled. "Thank you! Wow, this is super of you guys to do!" She grabbed a danish and chewed thoughtfully. Her smile grew. "Amazing, as expected of you, Roderich."

"I helped, and Ludwig," interjected Elizabeta.

"Where's your brother?" politely asked Roderich.

Bella's kind expression wavered a little. She waved her hand dismissively. "He's outside, said he didn't want to come in for a while. He's a nut, if you ask me; it's cold out." She walked away.

Elizabeta frowned. "That's weird. Normally Lars practically tramples over everyone to get a practice room in the morning." The man did love to play a little before going to class.

"Maybe he's just pensive," suggested Roderich, "It's his last year here. Coming in for the last time after a successful UIL would be a little heavy."

"Huh. Maybe."

The first bus had arrived, as evident from the distant shriek of brakes and grumbling of tired school bus motors.

Alfred burst in. "I smell _danishes_!" he exclaimed, running toward Roderich. Matthew shyly followed, looking embarrassed at his brother's actions.

Alfred smacked loudly as he complimented the pastry. Matthew bashfully accepted one and complimented it as well, though he waited until his mouth wasn't full. Matthew immediately went inside, but Alfred waited until he'd finished eating, considering his amateur cook boyfriend's feelings, picturing Arthur moping in a corner.

Next was Tino. He had similar kind words to say. Other buses began to pull up, filling the building with life. Since the band was small, only a portion of the many students actually trickled to the band hall; nevertheless, they were boisterous as well. Slowly the band students began to show up.

Peter Kirkland, however, was not among these people.

He groaned exasperatedly, darting his head this way and that as he tried to see over the stupidly big heads of the upperclassmen. Since it was morning, the bus was quiet with chatter, with people still struggling to fully wake up. Peter was wide alert.

"Come on, we're gonna be late!" he whined to the bus driver as if he could hear him, "My first period teacher takes tardies even if you walk in to the room a second after the bell rings!"

His bus buddy laughed. "Chill, Peter!" she said, "See, a perk of riding the bus to school is that if we're late, it doesn't count against us. We're not the ones drivin'." She adjusted her earbuds and closed her eyes, enjoying her music.

Peter pursed his lips. Chell was a sophomore, so she knew what she was talking about, but she was more carefree about her tardies than him. He bounced his leg up and down, worriedly watching the street. His fingers drummed against the seat.

Chell giggled. "Look, you're a percussionist even when you're not in band."

That made Peter scowl. "I'm _always_ a percussionist!" he declared proudly. His face lit up. "Hey, now that we're gonna be in concert season, do we get split up in bands?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, there's a top band where all the really talented people are, and then an intermediate, and then the, er, bottom band."

Chell smiled sadly. "Peter, we're too small for that. We only have one band."

Peter sank a little in his seat. "Oh."

"Why, did ya want to know how you ranked?"

"Well... yeah." He felt a knot in his tummy as he realized something – he hadn't even made drumline, which he'd had his heart set on since joining band in 6th grade. And here he thought he would be put in the top band, if it existed.

"We're still gonna be ranked, it's just that we're gonna be in the same band," Chell said, oblivious to his lament, "You know, like chair order and whatnot. Has your brother told you nothing about how we work?"

The knot tightened. "No."

Now Chell became aware of Peter's sadness. "Oh." She gave him a pat. "Hey, don't feel bad! Your brother's a jerk. You're cool, though." She amiably bumped his shoulder.

"How do you think I'd rank among the percussion?" he asked, trying to switch the subject.

"Yao is definitely first," she said, "To no one's surprise. Second and third sometimes flips between Mathias and Yong Soo. Heracles sometimes falls from his position, since he's so damn lazy, but when he tries he's actually decent, so it's just up to how much work he feels like doing. Then there's you and me." She stopped there. As she was in drumline and knew how much Peter had wanted to be in it, she dared not suggest she was better than him and could outrank him.

"I'm gonna practice really hard," Peter proclaimed, "I want to be as good as Yao by the time I'm a senior! And then show up my brother with my sick beats."

Chell laughed. "Your bro plays the pansy English horn, though! You can't really show him up when you play two different instruments."

Peter made his hands into guns and pretended to blow smoke off them. "I'm going to be so awesome, it's not even gonna matter!"

"Hey, we're movin'!" Chell said. The bus advanced little by little.

"About time!"

Upon uttering these words, a pang of realization hit Peter like a frying pan to the stomach.

"Crap, I forgot to do my Geometry homework!"

Chell's eyes grew. "Oh my god, I did too!" They zipped open their backpacks and rummaged for their homework. The interior of Chell's backpack was a mess, and she finally pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper with some scribbles; Peter was surprisingly organized and got his math folder out. Neither had done a single problem.

They continued to hurriedly work together and argue about postulates until they got to school.

The morning bell rang and the band dissipated to head to their respective classes. Roderich's danishes were nearly gone; a few pastries remained, unclaimed by missing students. He wrapped the plate back up, planning to give them their treats when they appeared for band class.

"Mr. Vargas, is it alright if we leave the food here?" he asked the director.

"Sure, sure! Promise I won't eat them, no matter how much it tempts me."

"Thank you."

Elizabeta waited by the office, tapping her foot. "Hurry, we have a German test today!" she warned.

"I'm here, I'm here." Roderich exited quickly and left the band hall.

"Did you study?" he asked her as they walked down the hallways. His speed was much slower than Liz's, and she would slow down for him. However, this morning she was a bit antsy about the test first period, so she grew a little annoyed by his lack of haste.

"Obviously not yesterday, because I was over at your place. This morning, a little. But I can't seem to grasp anything this year!" She huffed. "I don't know why I bothered to continue. AP German just sucks the life out of me."

"You can always ask me for help," he suggested.

"You're busy so much, though! If it's not AP German, it's AP Music Theory. If it's not that, it's AP Bio. If it's not _that_, it's AP Calculus or AP English or AP Economics... good lord, Roddy, how can you handle all those AP classes and still look like a functioning human?"

He paused. "Actually-"

They arrived at their class. Liz dashed to her desk and whipped out her notes, skimming over them.

Roderich shook his head. "_I'll tell her later_," he thought, sitting down and reviewing as well.

The tardy bell shrieked, and with it Gilbert came running into the room. He almost fell over his desk as he hurried down to sit. The teacher eyed him coolly; Gil was a repeat offender. "This is your last freebie, Mr. Beilschmidt," she warned, "Next time will be your fifth tardy, and with it comes detention."

Gil panted. "Yeah, I got it."

"Perhaps you should ask your brother for tips on punctuality." She turned back to the class. "Everyone, put your review sheets away. We will begin our test now."

From the corner of his eye, Roderich saw Gilbert's jaw fall faster than a meteor about to hit Earth. His expression was also the same as if he was about to get incinerated by a giant, fiery rock.

She handed a stack of tests to the first student in each column, who in turn passed those back. "We will begin with the listening portion," she said.

The person in front of Roderich gave him the papers. He mumbled a thanks, grabbed his own, and passed the stack back without glancing at who it was.

Vash took them a little forcefully without a word.

Roderich gave a little sigh, mindlessly eyeing the test. Despite the seating order being 'random', according to Mrs. Schwartz, he found it a little difficult to believe Vash ended up sitting beside him every time. Perhaps she thought the two would end their petty feud and resume their friendship. There was a higher chance of him passing AP Calculus than _that_.

He sighed again and rubbed his temples. His parents were going to eat him alive for his grades there. Economics wasn't going so well, either.

Disembodied voices growling in German told him the test had begun. He pushed his dismal thoughts aside and tried to focus on a class he was at least good at.

Somewhere in another wing of the building, another person struggled with their class. Alfred F. Jones bit his pencil top, tasting rubber and metal.

"_What the _hell_ does this symbol mean?!_" he screamed internally, "_It's like pi and the letter 'y' had a baby."_

He tapped his foot restlessly, earning him a steely glare from Ludwig. He mouthed the word 'sorry'.

"Mr. Jones!" barked the teacher, "Are you sharing answers with Mr. Beilschmidt?"

The color drained from Ludwig's face.

"N-no Mr. Cook," Alfred spluttered, "I was, um, tapping my foot and it got on his nerves so I just said 'sorry'."

The teacher harrumphed and went back to pacing through the room.

Alfred's eyes bounded back to his test. "_This is Physics, so obviously it's some physics-y thing_," he reasoned, "_God damn it! What was it? I've seen this so many times before; how could I just forget?!"_

"Five minutes," said Mr. Cook.

"_Shitshitshit. Should I even bother to guess what it means? Man, fuck Physics. I'm just gonna write down a random answer." _He released the pressure on his pencil and scribbled down '50 nanometers'.

He got up and turned the quiz in, his internal organs stirring uneasily. It was as soon as he sat back down that the answer hit him like a ton of bricks. "It means _wavelength_!" he hissed, "It measures wavelength! Aaah, _fuck_!"

It was too late now. He slouched in his chair. Well, if he failed the quiz, at least he'd know when he got it back with an angry red grade on i-

"FUCK THIS SHIT!" screamed a male voice, "WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK IS EVEN HAPPENING HERE?"

The entire class turned around.

You could practically see the steam rising from Lovino's nostrils. He waved his paper furiously. "HOW THE HELL IS ANYTHING ON HERE GONNA HELP ME IN LIFE?" he demanded to know.

Mr. Cook was insulted. "Mr. Vargas! I won't tolerate such language or attitude in my class. Come up here – I am writing you up."

"YOU DIDN'T EVEN ANSWER MY GODDAMN QUESTION!"

The teacher narrowed his eyes. "Do I need to? You are in school to get educated; this class is necessary for-"

"BUT _WHY_? WHAT IF I'M NOT GOING INTO A SCIENCE FIELD AT ALL? WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT OF THIS? I'M SO _SICK_ OF THIS SHIT - WAVELENGTHS AND MEMORIZING FORMULAS 10 MILES LONG AND VELOCITIES AND CRAP THAT'S POINTLESS!"

"Mr. Vargas, go to the principal's office!" Mr. Cook had a pass in his hand. His arm was firmly outstretched as he waited for Lovino to go get it. Lovino angrily marched up, swearing the entire time about how the class was useless. His last words before he exited the class were, "I AM SO THROUGH WITH THIS BULLSHIT." He slammed the door shut to emphasize his point. Alfred shared a brief glance with Ludwig.

Mr. Cook turned to his stunned class. He cleared his throat. "Ignore that whole tumult. We still have half an hour of class and I expect it to be like normal. All quizzes should be turned in now. Please flip to page 372 in your textbooks, as you might want to consult it for your next assignment."

The spell of silence was immediately broken. Papers fluttered, pencils scribbled, textbook flaps hit the desks, some students shuffled to the front to turn their quizzes in.

Alfred apathetically did as he was told.

"I wonder where they'll put the new trophy?" wondered Lili. She walked with Peter to the band hall, and despite not being too close to it, the muffled twinkling of a piano, lament of a trombone, brassy calls of trumpets, and faint trills of woodwinds were somewhat audible.

Peter laughed. "Yeah, our trophies take up like all of the hallway, plus all the ones inside the room! Maybe we should kick the orchestra out and flood the room with our stuff."

Lili smiled. "I was being serious. I suppose they could discard old ones."

"We could melt them down and make a giant mega-trophy as our door so everyone who passes by knows how awesome we are!"

"That would be quite a sight!"

He opened the door for her and she politely thanked him. He trotted after her, even though her band locker was far from the percussion room.

"Hey, do you know when we're gonna get chair orders? Since marching season's over and all, ranks matter now."

"Probably not today. My brother told me that they give them the day after UIL to relax a little. I assume later this week we'll have our auditions." She had unlocked her locker and daintily got her instrument case out.

He pouted. "Do we even need our instruments-?"

"PETER! What are you doing, aru?!" called an annoyed voice.

Peter groaned and turned around. "I was just talking to Lili, Yao! Sheesh!" He crossed his arms. "She said we don't even _do_ anything the day after-"

"I still expect you to practice, aru! No slacking in _my_ percussion section!" Yao dragged him away from her, all the while Peter complained. Lili giggled and waved him goodbye.

The room came back to life as people arrived. Some sat down on the chairs already set, some got their instruments out and warmed up. The ball finally rang and Mr. Vargas waltzed in from his office.

"Hey everyone!" he said, "Congratulations on yesterday! But I mean, did we expect anything less from us? No, Gilbert," he said when he saw him stand up, eager to say something sassy. Gilbert bashfully sat back down as people chortled.

Mr. Vargas continued. "If you didn't get your danish earlier, Roderich has them. SIT BACK DOWN ALFRED, YOU GOT YOURS ALREADY. Roderich remembers who it wasn't so don't anyone else try something funny."

He clapped his hands and grinned. "Anyway, I need to get you guys seated in order. This is based off your audition from last year; the upcoming audition will be Friday. The etude will be everyone's first song from your Region music, which I trust you've all been practicing." A few guilty people smiled nervously and sunk in their seats.

"I've got the list already, so won't everyone please stand while I get you all where you're supposed to."

They began to chatter among themselves. Peter turned to Chell. "Wait, why didn't anyone tell me this?!" he cried, "I did horrible on my audition!" He covered his face with his hands.

"No worries, dude. These don't really count. It's Friday's that will."

Mr. Vargas began to read off his list. "Alright, let's start with the front row woodwinds shall we? Kiku, Emil, and Mei, please seat over here on the left in the order I called you in. Next, Feliks. Lili, you're next to him, and then you, Arthur. Lukas and Li please follow." He waited until they settled where they were supposed to be.

"Man, don't you get jealous sometimes of those who are the only ones who play their instruments?" sighed Chell, "They never have to worry about competition or getting moved down."

Peter hummed in agreement.

"Next row!" said the director, "Starting again in the left and sitting in the order I call you in – Bella, Kyle, Sadiq, Liz, Vash, Matthew, Toris, Raivis."

Feliciano trembled, fingers crossed. "Please let me be first chair, please let me be first chair!"

Alfred laughed and slapped him in the back. "Hey, you're not the only one wanting that! I thought I did pretty good in my audition, myself."

"Like it even matters," said Gilbert, "You two flip seats every time we have an audition! You're tied for first no matter who sits before the other."

"Aw, thanks Gil!" Alfred replied.

Gilbert scoffed. "Excuse me?" He grinned. "The only reason I am not first is that my amazing sound would drown you two wimps out."

"Feliciano, Alfred, Gil," said Mr. Vargas, interrupting the trumpets' friendly bickers. Feliciano cheered and went to his spot. Alfred looked a little let down and plopped down on his seat. He made a V with his index and middle fingers, pointed them towards his eyes, and then to Feliciano's. But the latter was too busy celebrating to notice.

"Next Roderich, Francis, and Sofia!" Mr. Vargas called out. As Roderich walked to his seat, Liz winked at him, giving him a friendly thumbs-up. He goodnaturedly rolled his eyes, smiling beside himself.

"Lastly, our low brass," said Mr. Vargas. The percussion cried out in annoyance, making him laugh. "Besides the drum-bangers," he added, clicking his tongue and grinning, "Lars, Eduard, Natasha, Lovino. Then Ludwig, Tino, Berwald, and Ivan. Percussion, just sit in whatever order because I haven't ranked you yet."

"What!" cried Yao. He grumbled and sat down on the floor, as the director had forgotten to set up chairs for them... again.

Peter was irritated a bit, too. "He's so lazy sometimes," he complained.

Chell nodded. "One time last year, he actually forgot to show up to a rehearsal. We bothered Roderich to lead us but he claimed to not know how to do that for marching, so everyone just went home." She leaned back, resting on her hands. "Yet Vargas somehow still manages to direct us and be actually damn good at his job... when he's not being lazy."

Mr. Vargas eyed his band. "Good, seems everyone's where they're supposed to be. For the remainder of class you're free to do whatever. I'd prefer if you practiced for your auditions, but whatever suits you." With that, he left for his office, and a few individuals began adding their sounds to the air. Lars picked up a stand, holding his trombone with the other, and left for a little more secluded corner of the band hall. Eduard followed suit, curious to hear his senior's playing and reflect on it so he could improve. Arthur had gotten his oboe out and was helping Lili with her music. The trumpets began playing together at Gilbert's request to see how he compared to the other two.

It was a lively atmosphere.

Feliks happily bounded over to the clarinet section to chat with Toris, who at the moment glanced dreamily at Natasha. The girl paid him no attention; she was playing her music with that irritated countenance she always seemed to wear. Feliks glowered and flicked his friend on the head.

"Ow," Toris said, turning around to see who'd done it. His face relaxed. "Oh. Hello, Feliks."

Feliks sat crosslegged on the floor. "So I take it you now who you're gonna, like, ask to Homecoming?" he said.

Toris' eyes grew. "Homecoming! Oh, wow, I'd almost forgotten." He turned his head slightly to look at Natasha, and then back. He smiled. "Yeah, I think I'll ask Natasha again."

Feliks twisted his mouth to the side. "Because _that_ worked out well the last two years," he muttered.

"Well, maybe she'll change her mind this year-"

"She almost broke your toe last year! You just _asked_ her and she, being, like, the freaking psycho bitch she is, stepped on your foot so hard she almost _broke your toe_!"

"I think I was being a little too forward."

Feliks groaned exaggeratedly. He looked sternly at the other. "Toris, you and I, are, like, straight up best friends, and you know you can totally tell me everything. I'm here for you and I, like, won't judge you. _Except_ in this case!" He peered sideways at Natasha, still in her own psychopathic world. "Toris, she's freaking _crazy_. Not in a good sense either. Like, legit insane. You need to get over her! She's not a good person!"

Toris pursed his mouth.

"Feliks!" called Elizabeta, walking over to where he was. He immediately lit up.

"Liz, Liz! Have you picked out your Homecoming dress yet?"

She sputtered. "No. There's like, what, 3 weeks left? Besides, you know dress shopping isn't really my thing." She smirked. "I was half considering making Roderich wear the dress this time around. It's a little more appropriate, don't you think?"

Feliks laughed, as did Toris, despite himself. "He should totally run for Homecoming Queen," suggested Feliks, "I would, like, _so_ vote for him. If I was a senior, I'd run!"

"I have no doubt you would, Feliks." Liz playfully punched him in the arm. "You thinking of asking someone?"

Feliks' cheeks quickly turned pink. "No," he squeaked.

Liz eyed him suspiciously but didn't say anything else. "How about you, Toris?" she asked, turning to him.

"I was thinking Natasha..." he said quietly. Liz bit her lip and looked at the floor as if she were concentrating on something particularly interesting there. She finally pat him on the shoulder and said, "Ah. Okay, then."

Sensing the awkward hanging heavily in the air, Feliks suddenly chirped, "So, like, is Roderich going to give me that danish I missed in the morning, or what?"

"Oh! Yeah, let me go bug him. Be right back."

He was playing a simple little tune on the band hall's upright piano, yet even then it sounded wonderful. He'd attracted a small crowd. Liz excused her way through them and stood behind her boyfriend, head leaning over his shoulder. He finished the song and swiveled around.

"You need to pass out the remaining danishes," she said.

"Ah, you're right," he replied, and got up. Someone else claimed the piano and played random notes, much to his chagrin.

"I really don't understand why you didn't join percussion," she said as she followed him while he passed out the last few pastries, "It's not that different from the piano, is it? Or even orchestra, what with you playing the violin since you were 5 or something."

"You're always asking me this."

"Because I just don't get it! You could have kicked ass in orchestra, but instead you chose band all the way back in 6th grade."

"As I will always reply, I just wanted some variety." He paused to hand Lars a pastry, who took it absentmindedly. "I can always play the piano or violin at home, like I've done all my life. I was presented with an opportunity to learn an entirely new instrument. It sounded fun, and it is." They went back to Roderich's normal seat.

"Aw, you're such a music fanboy," she teased, "It makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside to see someone so passionate about something." Her smile faltered. "You know exactly what you're going to do, and here I am, going to graduate this school year, and I still have no clue."

Roderich pondered of what to say without sounding hurtful. "It's not that uncommon to be unsure of what to major in," he said, "I'm lucky I found something that interests me this much. I'm sure you'll decide on something, but even then it wouldn't matter too much what you picked, because if you then realize that something else is better for you, you can switch majors."

"Easy for you to say," she mumbled, "You could buy your way through all four years of college."

"That's not true. I'm applying for a scholarship, too." He took Liz's hand in his and smiled. "You'll find something to major in."

They didn't notice, but a little further to the left, Gilbert stood making gross faces. Alfred slapped him in the back of the head.

"Gil, come on," he said, "You were the one who asked us to play with you."

Gilbert waved him off. "Yeah, sorry. I've had enough practice for now; thanks for helping, though."

"No problem!"

"Has anyone seen my brother?" asked Feliciano, only realizing his twin was gone.

"Wow, I can't believe I forgot to tell you!" exclaimed Alfred, hitting himself on the forehead, "He got _really_ pissed off during a Physics pop quiz today. Dude was redder than Republican Texas. He stood up and started swearing and Mr. Cook sent him to the office."

Feliciano gasped. "Oh no! Mom's gonna get mad. This is the third time this year he goes to the principal's office!"

"Yeah, what's with him?" asked Gilbert, "I know he can have a stick up his ass a lot of the time, but lately that stick has just been shoved all the way to-"

"Stop ri-i-ight there," said Alfred, covering Gilbert's mouth with his hand.

Feliciano hesitated. "Um, I don't really know if I should tell you guys... I mean, you're my friends! But I don't think Lovino would want anyone to know what's bothering him, especially since he hasn't actually told me. I'm just guessing."

Before either Alfred or Gilbert could reply, the bell rang.


End file.
